


in another lifetime

by snivellus (queervulcan)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Neglect, Chubby newton, Domestic Fluff, Existential Crisis, Gaslighting, Genderfluid Character, Jewish Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Panic Attacks, Religion, Trans Newton Geiszler, genderfluid hermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14681145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queervulcan/pseuds/snivellus
Summary: day 1: he. you and i.day 100: us.day 1000: in another lifetime.





	in another lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](https://twitter.com/transhermann/status/988539033331564544) tweet thread i made
> 
> thank you to my lovely beta's: [@newtnewt69](https://twitter.com/newtnewt69) and [@gradually](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gradually/pseuds/gradually)

**Day 0**

There was a formal invitation solely for Hermann.

The first thing he noted was the crisp, clean text addressed as: _Doctor Gottlieb, of Massachusetts._

He noted the lack of Doctor Geiszler like a smudge against the bathroom mirror, like Kaiju that would trail over the boundary line back in the days.

He wanted to grieve -- he did, his mind screamed at him, ever logical and without flaw -- but his heart, still young and bitter, was dancing in circles in glee.

He set down the invitation -- the notice -- and leaned back in his chair. Hermann had to consider if he truly wished to go. His father -- Lars, Newton’s voice chided him -- was not a good father by any means, but he still raised him alongside his dear mother and even dearer siblings.

He wondered if they would attend, or if they would burn this notice like he was contemplating and decided to pretend they never saw it. He wondered what kind of man it made him to consider such a thing.

Hermann looked down at the slim piece of paper on his desk, glaring up at him, omnipresent. He didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to pretend to grieve for a man he didn’t even love.

He decided to text a photo to Newton, waited for him to stomp his way upstairs, still loud and all encompassing even in their mid fifties, waited for him to wrap his arms around Hermann’s shoulders and push his face into the sweater Newton made for himself.

Hermann inhaled, counted backwards from ten, then forward in squares, and exhaled slowly.

* * *

**Day 1**

The funeral was a quiet affair. It was a bright, sunny day, very non typical of the United Kingdom’s climate. In an offhand manner, Hermann was relieved it wasn’t raining.

Newton would have said it was because God himself was crying for the loss, but Newton had been conspicuously silent the past week. When Hermann has expected him to yell, to throw a spare pen or one of the thousand stuffed toys they had around the house, he had instead clicked his mouth shut, grimaced, and quietened down.

Here, in the home town of Hermann, Newton was pressed securely against his shoulder, just hard enough for Hermann to not be able to forget he was there, but enough that he wouldn’t topple over in a heap.

There was no eulogy, no fanfare, or crying. Most of the people who would have grieved Lars’ passing were dead, or could not make it. For better or for worse, the funeral was short and impersonal, much like how Hermann had felt with his father since he was aware of his own consciousness.

His siblings trickled out one by one, offering him shoulder pats and kisses on the cheek, offering the same to Newton, treating them like the equals they were.

He and Newton were the last to stay, and even when Hermann could see him shifting from foot to foot from the corner of his eye, he said nothing.

Hermann was hyper aware that Newton has the emotional development of a twelve year old, but in moments like these he realized just how grown up he was.

Finally, Hermann sighed and bowed his head. He hefted himself from where he had been leaning against the tombstone, grabbing his cane on the way up, and made his way to where Newton was leaning against a tree, checking his cell phone.

“Alright?” Newton asked, still flicking through his Twitter feed.

“Alright.” Hermann answered, taking one of Newton’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. Newton glanced up, and cocked his head at him, smiling back in confusion.

“Let’s go home, Newt.”

* * *

**Day 9**

Hermann sits up on the bed, held upright by a mountain of pillows. The sunlight drapes over his covered legs, pools on the small of Newton’s back.

Hermann reaches over, fluttering his fingers against Newton’s warm, asleep body, careful not to wake him. He lets the pad of his pinky touch Newton’s skin, drags it up against the fine hair, and finally lets it rest on his mid back.

He pulls his hand back, looks at it, then Newton’s face, and back.

It is quiet, and if Hermann strained he would be able to hear birds chirping outside, announcing a new day.

Instead, he scoots down so his neck is supported by the pillows, places his hands over his stomach, and tries not to think too hard.

He fails- of course he does, because life has never been kind to him. The one bit of kindness was Newton, and that was after years of fighting and relocating.

He thinks of his childhood, and the things he never got to experience. He thinks of late night dinner lessons, with a warm, freshly cooked meal sitting heavy in his stomach, but his father’s cruel and cold words hanging over him and his siblings like a dreary cloud.

_Religion is for fools, for people with no minds, no wish to prosper. Are you fools?_

_No_ , Hermann whispers under his breath, unaware of the eyes watching him, _I am not_.

Hermann closes his eyes, unwillingly remembering memories he thought he had long since buried.

_Five years old and smacking his lips against the lipstick running down his chin, eyes wide and curious. Ten and trying on his momma’s wig, letting the soft curls bounce around his shoulders, in awe of its glossiness. Thirteen and pimply and too smart for his own good, and being told he will never amount to anything if he does not curb his emotionalism._

_He was wrong_ , a memory of Newton’s earnest face under candlelight comes unbidden to the forefront of his brain, _you’re not the sum of your father_.

“I’m not the sum of my father.” Hermann repeats out loud into the quiet room, startling himself with how loud his voice comes out. He glances quickly to make sure Newton hasn’t awoken, relieved and a trifle wary.

Closing his eyes once again, he shuffles all the way down so he can wrap one of Newt’s arms around his body, to curl into his arms and soak in the warmth.

* * *

**Day 23**

It starts inconspicuously. Little moments of wonder, of lingering eyes and hands.

For the first time since he was born, Hermann feels free.

Sometimes he catches himself looking behind his shoulder, afraid of judgmental eyes and poking fingers. He has to remind himself Lars can no longer torment him.

It starts with watching. He watches Newton, when he cooks, when he shops in both sections of the clothing store, when he is humming to himself while knitting another lumpy sweater.

He watches, and watches, until his eyes feel like they will tear up if he does not blink.

He blinks, and looks away.

* * *

**Day 97**

Hermann watches Newton sprawled on the couch, his back to their bedroom door. From this angle he cannot see what he is doing, but he can smell the sharp scent of opened nail polish.

Newt will idly air his hands, checking them for accidental smudges, then go back to the program he was watching.

“I can feel you watching me, dude. Drift bond, remember?” Newt doesn’t even look behind him, doesn’t sound like anything but bored and a smidge curious.

“Newton-“ the uncharacteristic hesitance in his voice causes Newton to mute the TV and sit back, turning to face Hermann with his arms hanging over the sofa back.

Newton doesn’t say anything, let’s Hermann speak slowly what is on his mind in the manner he has learned to become accustomed to.

“I wish- for you to paint my nails.” Newton can feel the difficulty in which Hermann manages this small confessions, both physically and mentally, and instead of teasing him as he is want to do, he pats the empty space next to him and rifles carefully through his bottles.

“How daring are we feeling, babe?”

Hermann sets himself carefully next to Newton, careful to not dislodge his bottles but still craving the intimacy of shared personal space.

He huffs a small laugh to himself, “You once said fortune favors the brave, so. Yellow it is.”

Newton smiles at him, quick and bright, before ducking his head down to concentrate. Hermann is entranced by the way his husband never fails to elicit butterflies within him, enamored with the way Newton sticks his tongue out between his lips in concentration, with how he hums and sings little jingles under his breath.

Hermann is hit with the startling realization that no matter what, no matter who he is, he never wants to leave Newton’s side.

A second coat of paint is applied, and he is left with instructions to sit still and let them dry. By then, Newton’s have long since dried, and he spends his waiting moments curled up next to Hermann, resting his chin on Hermann’s shoulder, one arm thrown behind him for support, so Newton can press kisses along Hermann’s jaw, his eyebrow, and along his hairline and down to where his neck meets his jaw and ear.

Hermann shivers, but doesn’t pull away.

Newton sighs, and finally rests his head in the crook of Hermann’s neck, eyes fluttering shut.

“You know I’ll always love you, right, Hermann? No matter what.”

Hermann stiffens slightly, but when there is no follow up he lets himself loosen slowly.

Instead, he covers Newton’s hand with his own, careful not to bend his fingers, and turns his head to meet Newton’s.

He reciprocates the kisses, brushing his lips against Newton’s upper lip, against his cheeks and nose and eyelids, up to his hairline and scalp, and back down to his jaw. He cradles Newton’s face in his hands, projecting all the love and home and _safety_ he can possibly, feasibly manage through his touch and through their bond.

Hermann watches as Newton’s eyes well up, blink, and dislodge a few tears upon opening. He brushes them away gently, kisses them with his mouth and nose and eyelashes until Newton is once again giggling underneath him.

 _My sweet husband_ , Hermann thinks through the bond. _My darling boy_.

Newton hides the smile in Hermann’s shoulder, but he feels it.

* * *

**Day 101**

Some nights Hermann still wakes up in a cold sweat, thinking Lars is alive.

He will end up flat on his back, blankets tangled around his hips, leg aching faintly. His chest will fall and rise like a fowl who is easily scared, counting the fake glow-in-the-dark stars he can see without his glasses on their ceiling. Outside, he can faintly hear the chirping of crickets, and next to him is the steady breathing of Newt.

He hates waking up this early, because going back to sleep is a far off dream, slipping between his fingers like water; and it will usually end up in him overthinking.

 _It has been 101 days_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies him. 101 days since his father died. He can feel his shoulders tense, helpless to do anything about it.

Tonight, his brain runs itself into a rut, and the stars above him burn into his retinas, creating a circle of _what-if, what-if, what-if_.

What if everything his father taught him was wrong -- what if religion isn’t just a concept to be brushed aside -- who is Hermann without a lingering shadow over his shoulder?

Hermann feels his breathing speed up, inching ever closer to hyperventilation, questions spinning around inside him like a dreidel.

In the back of his brain he can feel a buzzing, short chitters of cicadas wings, and Newton is suddenly above him, blocking his vision but for his green- so green- rimmed with red eyes.

Hermann reaches out to touch Newton’s face, so serious in the early morning, to ghost his fingers across his stubble, across his frown and the worry lines between his brows. The buzzing grows stronger, insistent, and Hermann’s eyes water in pain and fear.

Newton lowers his body to lay half on him, half off, and croons the only song Hermann knows in Hebrew, switching some phrases into German.

It is a silly song- one Hermann taught himself in secret as a child seeking comfort in the unknown, in the face of his father's disdain for religion- about a dreidel.

The lullaby is interspersed with hands fluttering at his shoulders, air blowing across his ear and part of his neck, little nips at his jawline that has him swatting at Newt, panic forgotten for now as he laughs and squirms away.

They will eventually get up, and Hermann will walk straight to the coffee machine, already thumbing at the buttons as Newton turns to stove on for whatever concoction he calls food. They will watch the sunrise together from the couch in the family room, listen to the seashell chimes Newt insisted on having outside their porch, and Hermann will watch as Newt slips on his comfortable socks, soft and worn but no less fuzzy and warm, watch as he slips on bunny slippers to match and curl around Hermann’s shoulder.

Hermann will watch the sun rise, watch Newton’s glasses cloud up over their hot plates and drinks, and hide a smile behind his mug.

* * *

**Day 125**

Sometimes Hermann will walk by the local synagogue on his way home, pausing to read pamphlets on stands outside. He will peek through their partially open door, sometimes the windows, and watch as they pray, as they sing out and fill the space with their voices.

Sometimes he makes eye contact with the Rabbi, and the Rabbi will tilt his head, all welcoming smiles and softly gesturing hands, even as his voice continues and carries. Hermann will flee, flushing red at being caught, but be back within the week.

Sometimes it’s not a synagogue, but a church, or a mosque, once he stumbled upon a gathering of Pagans and was softly welcomed as he stumbled through his apologies, trying to escape and not intrude. He came home smelling of smoke and spices, foreign words still echoing through his head, and Newton had laughed at him for days.

He will peek through the church’s stained windows, brush his fingers against the doors of mosques, and continue onwards.

* * *

**Day 156**

Hermann rifles through Newton’s clothes, on the last of his clean pants and laundry day not being for another two days.

There is not much to do these days, the most pressing being to wake up and teach, but this has been a bad week health wise so he moves his classes online, makes sure his email is open, and that his TA’s are up to date.

Most of Newton’s clothes don’t fit him properly, but he isn’t looking for proper, just comfortable, so he grabs the first pair of black he finds- a pair of soft, thick leggings.

He’s never worn leggings, but the material against his hands feels like warm water, and he decides to give it a try.

Slipping it on is a struggle, one he has to sit down for and count backwards from ten as he ignores the throbbing shooting down his leg. It is finally on, and when he looks at his reflection he can reluctantly admire what he sees.

It is shorter than what he wears, so instead of bunching at his ankles it stops at mid ankle bone. It clings to him, despite being thinner than Newton, and he blushes at the memory of these same pants clinging around Newton’s thighs, curling under his stomach.

It frames his legs in a way he hadn’t imagined being possible, making his knobby knees seem delicate, and despite being a feminine choice of garb, he wants more of it.

* * *

**Day 194**

The text pings on his phone quietly, startling him from where he was reading a book on their bed.

It reads:

_Please don’t be mad at me._

Hermann inhales, lays his shaking hand flat against his thigh, and slowly picks up the phone.

_Explain yourself._

The minutes tick by, and the longer he takes to respond the more nervous Hermann grows. With his husband, there is an infinite amount of possibilities for situations gone nasty- a lab explosion, being on the wrong end of a cop, bumping into Hannibal of all things.

His phone pings once more, and he fumbles trying to open it, hands sweaty.

_I may have adopted a cat. A therapy cat. She’s cute, she looks kind of like you. What do you think?_

The photo attached would be more amusing in another lifetime, but here it makes Hermann’s lips thin in annoyance.

_Put her back where you found her. We’re not keeping her._

_Aw, come on man. Would you really deny a recovering man his coping tools?_

_You haven’t needed coping tools since year 8, and you know it._

_Jokes on you, Hermann, I’ll always need coping tools._

The way he says it- surefire and without hesitance- causes Hermann’s stomach to cramp in apprehension. Has it been so long that the worst of the memories were blurred? Hermann doesn’t know, doesn’t want to ask.

_She will be your responsibility._

The texts back are a series of excited emoji’s, an array of exclamation points, and a few Snapchat videos of a blurry, happy Newt and a yowling cat.

* * *

**Day 213**

Hermann is brushing his hair out after the shower one day when it hits him. His hair, once a mix of an undercut and a badly done DIY bowl cut, was now curling around his ears.

He had never realized it before, but it seemed he inherited his mother’s curly hair, if the way it curled around his eyebrows was any indication.

He tried brushing it off his face, only for it to fall back into his eyes, still slick with water.

He searches the bathroom cabinet, knocking over bottles of Newton’s hair products to find the nest of hair pins he has tucked away for emergencies.

He pulls a few out, and tries to pin his hair back the way he remembers seeing his sisters. It’s a bit rough, and a little lumpy in some corners, but it’s out of his eyes and that’s what he cares about.

He tries framing his face with his hands, turning it this way and that, and puckers his lips at his reflection.

Newton must have sensed some of his distress through their bond because suddenly there is a knock, and one green eye peeking through, before the door is fully opened and Newton is curling his body towards his, one arm slung carelessly over Hermann’s shoulders.

Hermann allows himself to sink into Newton’s warmth with minimal complaint, toying with the hair around his ears now.

“Should I cut it? It’s quite ugly, don’t you think?” Hermann’s voice sounds weak to his own ears, and he clamps down on the surge of panic he can feel bubbling up within him.

Newton looks at his reflection, and Hermann is too flustered to look back, so instead he looks down at their hands and compares the differences.

One- filled with scars at the fingertips from years of faulty instruments and slipping medical tools. Two- Newton’s are stockier, smaller than his. Three- while Newton is by no means tanned, he is still noticeably darker than he. Four-

Newton pulls his chin up with a soft hand, forcing him to make eye contact. Hermann flushes, but strains to make eye contact.

Newton slowly unclips the pins in Hermann’s hair, and sidles up behind him. On the counter was a hairbrush Hermann had placed before, and now Newton picks it up and brushes out Hermann’s hair with a loving tenderness that makes his eyes burn.

He closes his eyes as tears fall, and Newton stops at the first glance of distress but resumes when Hermann hiccups a _go on_. The brushing soothes him in a way he didn’t realize he had an itch for, and memories of his father telling him love was useless for men like him come rising to the surface.

At the time, he had assumed he meant scientific men, men with no religion but those carefully pieced together in dirty laundromats and empty 3 am canteens -- but with time he came to realize he meant any man who wasn’t like his father.

Newton kisses the soft spot behind his ear, wrapping his arms around his softening midsection, and drops the hairbrush into the sink basin. His voice in Hermann’s ears causes him to shiver, his arm hair rising.

“How does it look, baby?”

Hermann flutters his eyes open, blinking away lingering tears, and croons at the back of his throat at the hair that is now slicked away carefully from his face. The curls are tempting to touch, but he’s afraid if he does they will spill over his fingers and back into his eyes, so he reaches a compromise by running his fingers through the back of his head.

Newton smiles at his reflection, just watching him, never once suggesting to get it changed.

Hermann’s heart overfills with love, tears burning past his eyelids once more, and he turns to give Newton a kiss- pouring all the love he can feel spilling out of his body and through their drift.

* * *

**Day 370**

It’s a snowy, overcast day. The clouds are thick each time Hermann glances up, pushing his glasses back up his nose with his free hand.

The dampness of the snowflakes colliding with his hat warmed head is causing his hair to curl around his forehead, to static up into the air in cowlicks. Newton bustles along beside him, today being the assigned day for platform boots, laughing at jokes only he understands, occasionally stealing glances at him from underneath snow dusted lashes, and prods at his shoulder with his fingers just to be contrary.

Hermann considers buying the leash made for children for the hundredth time just that day as Newton once again bounds ahead, distracted by something else he insists fits his “aesthetic”, when he spots a shimmer of yellow at the corner of his eye.

He stops to look at the display window, peeking upwards at the fruit shaped logo that passes as a name, and looks back down at the dress. Vaguely, he can hear Newton still chattering away, boundless with energy. He places one hand on the display case, curling his hand around the edges of the dress, trying to see double with his reflection and the dress.

He’s so engrossed in envisioning himself with the dress he doesn’t see Newton sidling up next to him, nor see his hand as it moves up to curl around his shoulder, stopping just as it’s about to touch him.

He tilts his head at his reflection, tries to imagine the sunflowers matching his glasses. He brushes his free hand against the hollow of his throat, trails it down to his chest and his stomach, down to his hips and curls his fingers in the flesh there. Tries to imagine the dress hugging him.

He snaps out of his imagination when a particularly fat snowflake hits his eye, startling him into shocked awareness. He makes a soft crooning sound at the back of his throat, blinking away the dryness in his eyes.

Newton curls an arm around his waist, beaming up at him in the way that never fails to make Hermann’s heart stutter with love. Hermann smiles back down at him, tilting his body so he is encased in Newton’s arms, and brushes his mittened hand against Newton’s cheek, cradling his jaw as he leans down for a kiss.

* * *

**Day 372**

Hermann stumbles into the home office, coffee clutched to his chest like a lifeline. It is nearing 2 pm, but Newton had had the audacity to stay awake late last night, manic and brimming with new theories about Kaiju tissue being used to replicate human tissue in the face of shortage, of using the bone for true medicinal purposes and not just a drug for junkies, and-

Well, Hermann realized he was off in a tangent once more within his own head when his thoughts started to sound like his beloved husband, but it was fascinating, even if some of the concepts he had a harder time grasping.

He’s so bleary eyed he doesn’t spot the messily wrapped package sitting on his desk until he nearly spills his coffee on it. With one more careless sip that leaves him hissing from the heat, he shoves the cup as far away as he can, inspecting the bright orange package for a clue.

It is very obviously a gift from Newton, if the wrapping is any indication, but it’s soft. Hermann imagines what it could possibly be, and the anticipation is started to get to him, so he digs for his phone in his cardigan, face timing Newton.

He picks up on the third ring, voice bright and cheery.

“ _Hi baby! Not that I would ever deny it, but what’s the sudden call for?_ ”

“Did you leave this package on my desk?”

“ _Oh, the orange one? Yeah, I did! Have you opened it yet?”_

“No, I didn’t. Should I be wary?”

“ _You’ll like it, trust me_.”

Hermann can hear the sincerity ringing through his tone. It is the same tone he had for years after the precursors, soft and subdued and brittle.

Hermann sets his phone on the desk, only his head showing on camera, and slowly takes apart the package.

Hermann is unpeeling the tape from side two when Newton sighs heavily, and starts yelling at him to just rip apart the damn package.

He chuckles, and goes slower just to spite him.

Finally, finally the gift is unwrapped, and as Hermann peels back tissue a gasp lodges itself into his throat.

“ _Hermann? Hermann, do you like it?_ ”

“I- I don’t understand.”

“ _It’s the dress from the other day, remember? I saw you looking at it, figured you might like to try it on._ ”

“Why?”

“ _What do you mean why? Don’t you like it? Hey, here’s this. How about you just try it on at least._ ”

Hermann hummed, but set the phone on a bookshelf, propping it up against books. They had been married long enough that Hermann didn’t have a problem with stripping down in front of Newton, and so at this point he ignored his husbands cat calls.

The dress hugged his shoulders almost too tightly, just a size too small. The rest of it fit well, falling down his hips and legs in a way that begged for Hermann to swish around in.

He picked up the camera, making sure it was facing outward, and twisted his hips this way and that to display for Newton.

“ _It looks good on you, babe. What do you think?_ ”

“I believe I may become enamored with it, given time.”

Newton smiles at his reflection, and Hermann is distinctly aware of the praise he is about to showered with as soon as Newton opens his mouth.

Newton is barely three minutes in about _how good he looks_ , and how Newton wants to _run his hands all over him, under his dress and have him watch his reflection_ when Hermann becomes too flustered, flushed red, and hangs up, throwing the phone back on to a bookshelf.

Newton texts back, not even a minute later, with a sad emoji. Hermann ignores it, and the next, too busy patting his body and twirling his hips around, trying to imagine all the scenarios Newton had planted in his head.

The texts die down for a while, until another one pings his phone. This time, Hermann looks, and is greeted to an array of heart stickers, emoji’s, and a single text of _im glad you liked it._

* * *

**Day 478**

He considers, briefly, what his life has become. It has been a full year and some months, and he hardly recognizes himself anymore.

His face has grown softer, fuller, as his ghosts have learned to retreat under the face of Hermann finally learning to be comfortable within his own skin, under the pressure of Newton’s always there, always steady heart.

Some days he will catch his reflection in a puddle and stop to stare. All days in public he dresses how he is used to being presented- his neatly pressed slacks, a cashmere vest thrown haphazardly under a blazer that Newton insists is outdated.

He doesn’t wear his parka much, preferring to have it wrapped up tight in the corner of the closest in memorial, next to Newton’s old blood stained dress shirt.

When he arrives home after a busy day of teaching, he will toe off his toe pinching oxfords, tucking them neatly into a shoe rack. He will then either make his way to their bedroom, ready to dress down, or make a beeline to the kitchen where Newton is humming away to an old band song, ready to greet his husband and kiss him hello.

At the end of his rituals, he always ends up in the clothing he is too afraid to show others. Some days he will slip on a casual dress with a pair of tights and lounge around in their home, flaring the skirt out underneath him as he sits cross legged. On rough days, he will steal Newton’s leggings for himself, pick the first sweater he finds, and curl up in front of the fireplace with a mug of cocoa and a book.

It becomes a ritual, like clockwork. It feels like peeling back a second layer, almost like an onion- and _no_ , the Shrek reference that Newton had piped up with was _not_ funny.

It is a comfort, to look up as the sun is dropping to see his beloved across from him, knitting another lumpy project that no one has the heart to deny. Newton complains this level of domesticity makes them old and washed out, but the curling of his shoulders and the wavering of his hands when Hermann bites back betrays him.

Tonight, on night 478, the sun washes their living room with a golden light, the sun just starting to turn red. It highlights Newton’s hair, bringing his freckles into sharp contrast.

Newton glances up at him, once, and leaves him a flustered mess when Hermann is referred to as an angel basking in the sunlight.

All his life, he had been Doctor Hermann Gottlieb, son of Lars Gottlieb, worker of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corp, newly minted war hero.

He had then been Doctor Hermann Gottlieb-Geiszler, war hero twice over, with a mad husband. They had escaped the loudness of the city and originally lived in the outskirts, relying on delivery and Newton’s practical engineering skills.

He was now Doctor Hermann Gottlieb-Geiszler, a man who sometimes didn’t feel like a man, who had all sorts of questions within his scientific mind. They were held within his mind like popcorn, coming out and scaring him at inconvenient moments. But he would take this, him afraid and confused and mildly comfortable within his body  most days, rather than before.

He had never been able to just be _himself_.

* * *

**Day 689**

Newton never asks, only gives him side glances and small smiles.

He buys trinkets, little gifts, without asking _why_ . He shifts his vocabulary, his body language, all for Hermann _._ He never, ever asks, and some days it drives Hermann up a wall.

* * *

**Day 767**

Newton is a fan of Prides. Hermann, personally, would be more than willing to skip them. To him, they are nothing but too messy, much too loud, and certainly too hot.

He goes with Newton anyway, when he confided in him that Prides are like ripping off a band aid over his internalized shame. Newton is nothing like these new generation kids, who are loud and never once shameful of who they are.

When they watch another performance of another queen, Newton leans over and confides in whispers that he never imagined being able to get this far in his transition, never imagined he would be able to fork over cash for his top surgery, for his legal documents, that he always believed he would die young and never fulfill the deep rooted need in him to have love and understanding and most importantly: comfort and acceptance within himself.

So, no, neither him nor Newton are like these new kids. But as Hermann watches them parade around with their bright flags and brighter smiles, he feels buoyed.

* * *

**Day 890**

Sometimes he believes he hears his father's voice, two years and some days post mortem.

It is always the same, _man was not made for religion, they were made to follow blindly, love was not made for fools like him, stop crippling yourself and get back up_.

Hermann gets back up, but it’s not for Lars anymore.

* * *

**Day 920**

Newton loves to play with Hermann’s hair, curling his chin length hair around his fingers, letting the curls bounce back on to his skin.

Hermann allows him his foolish past time, as it doesn’t really bother him, and he gets free hair brushing and pets out of it.

The sun is low, and out of the corner of his eye he can spot the red bandana newton had demanded he take off so he could make little braids in Hermann’s hair.

He looks at it until the sky matches the color of the tie, and only then does he speak.

“I believe I may be transgender, Newton.”

Newton doesn’t even pause in his ministrations, which is a credit in his favor in Hermann’s mind.

“Is that so, babe?” There is no special tone for Hermann to rely on, as bland as if they were discussing the weather.

“Not- not quite like you, darling. I still very much like my body the way it is, I just- I believe what i am feeling is not… totally male, if that makes sense.”

“So, kind of like… nonbinary, you would say? Maybe genderfluid? I’ve noticed some days or months you go without changing your appearance.”

Hermann mouths the word to himself lowly, letting himself savor the word before spilling out his secrets.

“Genderfluid. Yes, I believe that’s it.”

Newton hums, finishing off a braid before turning Hermann’s body gently. He cups Hermann’s face with his hands, thumbs rubbing over his now softened cheekbones.

His thumbs pass over the wrinkles by his mouth, and Hermann nervously wets his lips.

“You know you don’t need a label, right? You’re perfect no matter what.”

Hermann’s eyes sting in a familiar manner at being referred to as perfect. “Yes, yes. I _know_ I don’t _need_ one. It’s just comforting to have something to fall back onto. I’m still very much a scientist at my core.”

“So who cares, babe? Anyone who would is dead and if someone does they can go fuck themselves.”

Hermann snorts before he can stop it, and Newton smirks in that insufferable way when he knows he’s won an argument.

“We have much to discuss, Newton.” Hermann chides gently.

Newton smiles in the way that makes Hermann’s walls go down, letting him sneak his way in and lodge himself a chip at a time in his time trodden heart.

“Yeah, sure. But tonight? Let me take care of you. Nothing but the best for my baby tonight. So turn around and let me brush your hair back how it was, give you a massage, maybe play dress up together.”

Hermann is already turning before the rest of his sentence registers, and he allows himself a quick laugh before swatting at Newton’s thigh.

“You are such an insufferable man.”

Newton presses a kiss to the base of Hermann’s neck, causing chills to race through him.

“Yeah, but you love it.”

Hermann closes his eyes as Newton takes apart his braids, letting himself relax as the hair comb brushes through his strands.

He does very much love his life now.

* * *

**Day 1000**

Hermann wears a dress out for the first time. It is sharp; a dark, dark green contrast to his skin. It is one most of his colleagues choose to wear when they feel like getting more dressed up, but Hermann refuses to resort to heels, especially with his leg.

It makes the outfit a bit clunkier and less put together, but Hermann has gone outside in worse than a business dress with loafers.

Not many people say anything, some of his colleagues choosing to compliment how well the green brings out his eyes, one student bravely remarking it looks like the color of Newton’s eyes.

Hermann feels like he’s floating, somewhere in between the next stage of his life and trapped in a little boy’s skin.

He imagines he will continue to feel this way for a long time, wonders how long it took Newton to stop feeling like he was in between two different worlds.

Hermann looks outside his office window, and catches the rays of the sun setting low over the campus trees. There is a single red rose in a pink vase sitting on the ledge, a gift from his husband, one which never fails to make him smile.

The sun is setting, the cherry blossom tree right outside his window is slowly starting to bloom, and Hermann gets up from his desk.

It is time to continue his rituals.


End file.
